"It's because when I was just a bit older than you, and not much taller, I could take that ball there in one hand and stuff it into the basket anytime I wanted to.
"That move's called a slam dunk. Not many white boys in West Virginia could do it back then. I was one of the first and so I got the nickname. That, and I used to shove people I didn't like into trash baskets." Duncan chuckled as picked up the questioner and held him over a trashcan, finally releasing the boy safely when he began to kick in earnest.
"No way! You're not putting me in there!"
"We believe the trash basket part, but not the basketball part. No way you could do that. No one can jump that high!"
"Is that a challenge?" Duncan checked his watch. He still had time before his next shot and snack break, but he'd been exercising all morning here at home with the neighborhood kids after discovering three old basketballs in the garage. Duncan had brought them out to the kids hanging around to play with. Strangely enough, he wasn't thirsty, even though he'd played a few games already.
Old Pete nudged him and whined. Duncan rubbed his head. "It's okay, Old Boy. This is an easy thing." In fact, he'd done it twice in a row after Duncan Junior's birth.
"Yeah!" the boys chorused.
"Okay. I make the basket and you all not only sweep my porches and driveway after we're done playing, but you come back over to my house this weekend and clean out the dog houses."
An unexpected week's worth of an Indian summer was nothing to waste. Hence his playing ball with the kids on the street. Maybe he and Sophia would go to New Petesburg to see how things were progressing, with the dogs and other projects this weekend.
Duncan stretched out and took a few experimental shots from around the yard. More to build up anticipation than to screw up his courage.
"I get three tries, right?"
"No!" "Nein!" The kids yelled in unison. They hated cleaning the dog pens even though they weren't as full as they used to be.
"Okay, watch this." Duncan began to dribble the ball and spun around Old Pete who seemed to want to stop him for some reason. Maybe he was jealous and wanted the ball but giving Old Pete the ball would spell its doom in one bite. He spun around Old Pete one more time to show off and switched the dribble twice and began the long, loping strides to the basket.
Duncan could hear the crowds screaming as he dribbled the ball from the half court painted onto his driveway. Suddenly he was in the gym of his youth and the heat grew close and he saw the flickers of colors through his one good eye, but all he saw were the phantoms of players he hadn't faced in nearly forty-five years. The flash of the green and white pompoms. The shapely legs of the cheerleaders.
Ghosts of his past glory. A dog barked, far away. He heard the chants counting down the game clock. He spun around, the ball bouncing around behind his back and into his left hand. He took a step and then palmed the ball in his right hand and leaped.
He rose towards the rim and his hand tomahawked the ball down inside it. He felt the crowd explode somewhere just behind his eyes. He heard the iron rim clang in protest to the abuse and the sound echoed and echoed and echoed.
"Slam Dunk" Cunningham never felt himself hit the driveway.
"Told yah I could still do it," he whispered.
Then the pain hit.
One of the older kids spoke up first. "Oh shit. Someone call 911 and fast."
To their credit, the boys didn't panic and began CPR immediately.
* * *
"There's nothing I can do for him." The massive dose of aspirin and painkillers she'd administered hadn't worked, but it was all she had to work with. Duncan had been overweight far too long even though he'd hit her demanded weight earlier last year. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Cunningham . . . Sophia." Dr. Shipley put her gear back into her bag, just to keep her hands busy.
"I'm fairly sure he's had a major stroke and a heart attack at the same time. Nothing a checkup would have shown coming, either. He just went too long without proper medications, is all. I'm afraid you don't have much time. I've made him as comfortable as I can, but you should go to him now." Susannah gathered her gear and did her best to make herself part of the furniture and disappear into the kitchen as people began to move back to the room where Duncan rested. She leaned against a wall trying to think of anything she could do to save him.
He had woken up twice while she did what she could, but the next time he closed his eyes would likely be his last. Dr. Shipley wanted to say something else about the baby the woman was still carrying, but words failed her. She'd already called Doctor McDonnell.
She didn't resist when someone pressed a jar of warm hard cider into her hand and she finally sat down in the kitchen and cried. She had a few patients she'd never really liked, and Duncan had been one of them. But he'd changed her mind with his accomplishments and attitude over the past year.
Duncan Cunningham had been a major, if not silent, contributor to the research and medications being produced for the local doctors and the hospitals through Three M. Giving some of her patients normal lives again.
That included the new insulin and other drugs that filled her freezers at work. Normal lives again. . . .
Dr. Shipley heard a patrol car pull up and its sirens die. That would be someone bringing in the rest of the family. She stood up and peeked into the bedroom. She couldn't face them all right now. One of the large pups came into the kitchen and laid its head into her lap and whined, when she finally sat down again.
She sneezed, but didn't shoo it away even though she was allergic to dogs.
"You're all loyal to your master, aren't you?" She scratched the pup's ears. Old Pete had refused to leave Duncan's bedside when she'd arrived and had only let in family and friends. It wouldn't be much longer, she knew. Did I do everything I could? she asked herself again and again.
Doctor McDonnell arrived an hour later and told her to go on home and that he'd take care of the paperwork. He knew the family better too, having dealt with them through Three M and the Manning Assisted Living Care Facility.
When young Noah's wailing started from the back of the house, she got up and began the long walk home instead of asking someone for a ride. No one objected when the puppy followed her home.
Old Pete didn't attend the funeral. He just sat guard by the crib, as if waiting for Duncan Junior to grow up so they could play. As the boy grew up, there would be plenty of new boots to chew on, too.
Grantville, October 1635
Sophia Cunningham petitioned and got their family crest approved a year later on the anniversary of Duncan's death. The motto over the new family mausoleum read translated from Latin. Short are our lives, but like St Alamo's—always will we be faithful to the end.
No matter the official name the dogs had been given for the history books and breeding papers, ever after in Grantville the dogs were always referred to as Duncan's Dogs.
Sonata, Part One
Written by David Carrico
Movement I - Allegro con brio
From the Grantville News, Monday, January 2, 1634
Linder-Sylwester Wedding
The New Year began with more celebration than usual yesterday as Marla Linder and Franz Sylwester were united in marriage at 3 p.m. in the Methodist church. The bride wore a white gown in the old Grantville tradition, while the groom was dressed in a blue velvet jacket and black velvet trousers. The matron of honor was Anna Riebeck and the best man was Friedrich Braun. Other attendants were the bride's sister Jonni Chieske and Thomas Schwarzberg. The Reverend Simon Jones led the bride and groom in their vows and joined them in holy matrimony. A reception was held in the church's fellowship hall afterward.
When asked why they selected Sunday as their wedding day, Marla replied that they wanted to begin the New Year as husband and wife. Franz added that being united on the Lord's Day made it even more meaningful.
The new family will make their home in Magdeburg, where they will both be involved in music and the arts.
; Grantville - Thursday, January 5, 1634
Franz felt as if he were walking on clouds as he walked hand in hand with Marla up the steps to the High Street House. Of course, he had felt that way since Sunday, when he and Marla were wed. It had happened so quickly, he still felt somewhat dizzy. It was hard to remember that it was only three weeks ago that he had proposed to Marla on bended knee before a room full of the most influential people in the USE. She had been patiently waiting for him to do so for months, but in his stubbornness he would not do so until the rehabilitation of his crippled hand had progressed enough to let him play his violin in public again. Once he had determined to propose, he waited for the night of her concert and took advantage of the setting as she responded to the final applause. He had well and truly surprised her, which was part of his delight, but it had not taken her long to overcome that surprise, pull him to his feet and—how did he hear someone describe it . . . oh, yes—"plant a lip lock" on him.
The days after that night had been a whirlwind of activity, as Marla was obligated to return to Grantville as soon as possible after that to sing the premiere of Maestro Carissimi's lament for the death of Hans Richter, Lament for a Fallen Eagle. It was to be performed on December 26th, the feast day of St. Stephen the Martyr. Somehow Franz was not surprised at the timing. The maestro, quiet though he was, had impressed him as being a man of thought and order. So, Marla, Franz and their friends—including Klaus and Reuel, who had been assigned to bodyguard duty by Gunther Achterhof after the episode in The Green Horse when Marla had been accosted by a drunk—had packed up on December 16th, the day after the concert, and left for Grantville. Klaus and Reuel were theoretically serving as couriers, and indeed, they did carry a package of papers to the CoC in Grantville. Everyone knew, however, that they were charged with Marla's safety.
The trip, although somewhat more taxing than when they traveled to Magdeburg on a barge, was somewhat more pleasant because of one thing: it was not raining. Marla did not handle being wet and cold very well. Franz sent silent prayers of thanks upwards for every day that dawned sunny and dry.
Once they arrived, the days prior to Christmas were filled with rehearsals at St. Mary's Catholic Church, the venue the maestro had chosen for the performance. Franz had sat on a pew, listening, as Marla, Isaac, Josef, Rudolf and Hermann had practiced with the composer and his chosen pianist, Elizabeth Jordan, one of Marla's former teachers. Frau Jordan had become a mentor to the renowned Italian composer in the ways of the music brought back in Grantville by the Ring of Fire, and it was a natural choice for her to play since Marla had been asked to sing the solo. Franz was still unable to play anything very complex yet, and had chosen to not attempt a part in this, desiring only the best performance for both Marla's sake and that of the maestro he had come to admire.
Christmas happened; a most joyful time in Grantville. The day after Christmas was the performance of the lament, and Marla had done as well as he had expected. Then she sprang her surprise on him. Even now, he remembered feeling as if he had been punched when she turned to him the morning of December 27th and said, "Let's get married! Now! We're here, my family and friends are here, and so are yours. Let's do it! On New Year's Day!" And he had been helpless to do anything except agree.
Once again, he saw Marla "kick into high gear." Once again all he could do was cling to her train as she, her aunt and her sister huddled together and planned a whirlwind campaign. They divided the tasks and moved out to conquer far faster than any military staff. Aunt Susan retired to the kitchen to do the baking for the reception. Jonni took over the arrangements with the church and the minister, the publication notice and preparation and circulation of invitations. Marla herself dealt with the question of attire.
A phone call to Karen Reading produced a squawk of "What?" Franz had heard it across the room from the phone. Karen had followed it with a stern command for Marla to get her behind to the Bridal Shop with no dilly-dallying around. Marla had obeyed that command. Franz traveled in her wake, to sit in a chair while Karen and Donna Lynn Rogers had fussed and fretted enough for three weddings while Marla tried on several dresses.
There were extended conversations about the suitability of each design, filled with arcane words that Franz had never heard before. For all he knew, they were conjuring up the desired dress. Fortunately, he had with him the book that Marcus Wendell, the band director, had given him, and he spent his time poring over that, looking up from time to time when one of the ladies would ask, "Franz, what do you think?" Each time he would smile and respond, "It looks beautiful to me."
When they (finally) had been allowed to leave toward the end of the day, Marla squeezed his arm as they walked out the door, and said, "Poor Franz, captive all day in a dress shop. You didn't have a clue what was going on, but your being there made me happy. Thank you." She leaned over and kissed him lightly.
The day of the wedding was mostly a blur, but he did have a few very clear memories. Marla smiling at him almost always warmed him to the point of fever, but that day, as he watched her walk down the aisle, the light in her eyes and the aura around her face took him to the point of incandescence. That peaked when she joined her hand to his and they walked up the steps to the platform and faced the minister.
That memory was playing in his mind as they stepped onto the porch of the mansion. Franz moved to one side, gathered Marla in his arms and proceeded to "plant a lip lock" of his own.
A timeless moment later they separated. Marla smiled at him. "Goodness! What was that for?"
Franz reached up to brush her hair back behind her ears as she continued to look at him quizzically. One of the many reasons he loved Marla was that she had never flinched from his crippled left hand. Truth to tell, when they walked hand in hand, she preferred to hold that one. "I love you," he said. Her smile widened, and she flowed back into his arms.
Another timeless moment passed. "You know," Marla murmured, caressing his cheek, "if you keep this up we'll be late for the meeting."
Franz captured her fingers and kissed them. "I know. If it wasn't so important to both of us, I wouldn't mind being very late."
Marla broke away from him and slapped his bicep. "You! Get in there." He sighed, opened the front door, and followed her in.
Every Grantville native called the stately old home that had been taken over by the city for administrative functions the High Street House. It was the closest thing to a mansion in Grantville. Franz and Marla walked into the meeting/event room at the back of the house and were greeted by applause. The ornate mahogany table had been moved from the former dining room. Many of the equally ornate chairs were occupied by friends and acquaintances who were clapping and whistling. Franz grinned, He could see Marla blushing.
Mary Simpson was seated at the head of the table, which didn't surprise Franz at all. She waved them to seats next to hers on the far side of the table as the noise died down. "Thank you all for coming today. I appreciate all of you taking the time for this meeting out of your busy schedules, or in the case of Marla and Franz, out of their honeymoon." Again there was applause from around the table. Marla blushed even more, and Franz's grin just got wider. "Nonetheless," Mary said, "I have to leave for Magdeburg shortly, and I really needed to talk to all of you about something that has got to be developed soon: an orchestra."
Ears perked up all around the table. Franz looked over at Isaac Fremdling, then to Josef Tuchman, to see wide smiles on the faces of his fellow string players. Rudolf Tuchman, Josef's brother, snorted, and said, "Finally."
Mary smiled. "Yes. Finally. But we had to walk first, before we could run. The work that you did all last year . . ." Mary waved her hand to encompass everyone at the table, ". . . all of you, has laid the foundation for the work that will be done this year."
"Umm, excuse me," said the quiet man dressed in a black cassock. "I think, perhaps, it would more correct be to say that the ground has been cleared for laying a foundation." The lilt of his voice made it very clear that not
only was English not his first language, neither was German.
"You are right, Maestro Carissimi." Mary nodded, accepting the correction. "I spoke out of enthusiasm, but you are indeed right. What you collectively did last year was assemble the workmen and the tools that are needed to lay the foundation. Now we must begin that work."
Franz looked around the table as Mary spoke. It was quite an assemblage of musicians and craftsmen in this one room . . . perhaps the most impressive collection of adepts that he had ever had the good fortune to be part of. To Mary's left was Marcus Wendell, the Grantville High School band director. He was a man with an incredible mass of up-time musical knowledge in his mind. To his left were the Italian contingent, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi and his musician and crafter friends and associates. Beyond the Italians sat the representatives of Bledsoe and Riebeck, the Grantville/German instrument crafters. At the far end of the table, opposite of Mary, was Bitty Matowski, the ballet mistress, fresh from the triumph of her staging of The Nutcracker. Franz noticed that Bitty was the only person in the room who was smaller than Mary. To Mary's right were Marla, Franz, and all the men who had been part of the study group that had formed around Marla in the spring and summer of 1633.
Mary smiled again. "I am not a musician, but I have worked in supporting musical groups in the past. I can assure you that I have received commitments for financial support for an orchestra for the foreseeable future. However, if we want to realize those commitments, that orchestra must be produced, and soon. I believe that all of you in this room can contribute to that effort in some way. So, let's get started."
The next hour was a revelation to Franz. Mary directed the discussion as surely as Marcus Wendell directed the high school band. They moved smoothly from topic to topic, covering the various issues involved with reproducing the up-time instruments in their current circumstances. Franz watched with interest as Mary stopped incipient arguments, prompted people into revealing information they didn't realize was important, and kept them focused on the goal, all the while making copious notes in a notebook. He found the time educational, to say the least; as much about how to manage a conference as about the information that was being shared.